


Lay

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Egg Laying, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, No mpreg, Other, Oviposition, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7686937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold says, "Suppose I told you that, unless I had partnered sex," his voice falters slightly on the word, "I would die within forty-eight hours."</p><p>John's eyebrows rise. "That's pretty melodramatic, Harold," he says. "You could just ask."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay

Harold says, "Suppose I told you that, unless I had partnered sex," his voice falters slightly on the word, "I would die within forty-eight hours."

John's eyebrows rise. "That's pretty melodramatic, Harold," he says. "You could just ask."

"Alright." Harold swallows. "Suppose I... no, to hell with this cowardice. John, I'm asking."

John's already halfway out of his chair. Harold is fully dressed in his usual impeccable three-piece suit, which John is looking forward to rumpling. Harold looks up at John like he's half-expecting John to eviscerate him.

"Don't think so much," John whispers, and leans in to smother Harold's indignant reply with his mouth.

For the next few minutes, John divides his attention between undressing Harold and doing what he can to suppress Harold's protest.

John does worry, a bit, but every time he pauses in the undressing attempts Harold picks up the slack, even as he's trying very anxiously to convince John that no, really, he-- something or other: John is uncovering more of Harold than he's ever seen before, he can't be expected to pay too much attention to anything else.

They're in a safe house, one of Harold's that has a very nice bedroom, and it occurs to John that this was by design. He grins as he steers them towards said bedroom, already making plans. First he'll suck Harold's dick, then--

Three things happen simultaneously: they reach the bedroom, Harold shouts, "If you just _listened_!" and John finally divests Harold of his underwear, only to realize that going down on Harold may pose a larger logistical challenge than John previously assumed.

"I was trying to tell you," Harold mutters in the resulting still silence.

The thing in Harold's pants is larger than any dick John has ever seen. He's never seen a dick shaped like this, or in that shade of greeny-purple. It looks almost like a tentacle, and it comes out of a slit in the very bottom of Harold's stomach: John is seized by sudden terror. His eyes snap up to Harold's face. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Harold says peevishly. "I'm afraid that's the way it normally looks - or, rather, the way it looks normally during estrus. Usually it's considerably smaller, you see."

Some part of John is arguing that he should get his hands on Finch while the getting is good and figure this new equipment as he goes along.

The rest of John files "estrus", the unfamiliarity of Harold's... genitalia? Appendage? And Harold's earlier allusion to possibly _dying_. John sits down on the edge of the bed. "Okay. From the top. What do you need?"

Harold pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're correct, _sex_ is somewhat misleading - although the act I require does involve a meeting of sensitive parts for the purpose of mutual sexual stimulation...."

John has never imagined feeling this turned on by someone sounding like he's reading aloud from a health pamphlet, but there's a first time for everything, and it's Harold. He catches Harold's hand and kisses it. "Finch. Let's focus on the objectives, huh?"

Harold narrows his eyes at John. "And what would those be?"

"You tell me," John says. "I'm primarily interested in making sure you don't die, and other than that I'd like to get you off."

For a moment Harold is quiet. Then he looks dismayed. "That's all?" His mouth purses. "No, you're right. First things first. This," he gestures at his not-cock, "is a prehensile ovipositor. It reacts to contact very similarly to a penis, in fact, although it's more durable and can appreciate being gently twisted or bent. Gently," he emphasises when John lets some of his horror show.

"Alright," John says, after taking a moment to adjust. "Different strokes."

"Just so." Harold gives him a brief, bright smile that feels like a reward. "If the ovipositor fails to _posit_ its _ova_ , so to speak, in the next two days, I will experience rapidly deteriorating health followed by death."

John's mouth tightens. "Okay, and positing the ova goes how?"

"I was getting there," Harold says irritably. "It's not unlike an ejaculation you might experience, Mr. Reese--!"

The latter word ends with a rising squeak, as John takes the tip of Harold's whatsit in his mouth. Harold needs to come, the ovipositor reacts mostly like a dick: seems simple enough to John.

The ovipositor tastes like a dick, too. That is to say, it tastes like skin, and the thin fluid that wells at the tip when John withdraws tastes and feels like precome when John gets his mouth back on it.

There's only so much of the ovipositor that John can get in his mouth, so he regretfully withdraws after a few moments. "Got lube?"

"Huh?" Harold says. His glasses are fogged and his voice is wavery.

John smirks and opens the bedside table's top drawer. There it is: personal lubricant, thank God and Harold's preparedness. John lies back and slicks himself up, quick and efficient, mostly thinking up strategies to keep Harold from either running away or thinking too much.

It turns out he needn't have worried. When he's got himself reasonably ready to go, he looks up and sees Harold staring at him lost and dazed, pupils so swollen his eyes seem black.

John grins and lies down on his back, spreading his thighs, aiming to be enticing. 

Apparently he succeeds, since Harold is kneeling between his legs in what seems like an inhumanly short time. Maybe not just _seems_ , come to think of it. John really should ask Harold what the hell he is, perhaps in a slightly more tactful way.

That can wait until John's made Harold come, though.

The ovipositor pushes into John, a sensation weirdly dissimilar to both cocks and fingers: the ovipositor bends... no, more than that, it _ripples_ inside John, prompting him to groan helplessly and open up further for it.

"John," Harold says softly. "Oh, John." He slides deeper, deeper, slow and inexorable, eyes fixed on John's face.

John would say something, only it seems he's lost the ability to form words. All he can do is moan weakly. Christ, the ovipositor is _big_ \- not girthy but _long_ , filling and filling John until he feels weak at the knees, grateful that he doesn't have to hold up his own weight.

"You're taking it so well." Harold traces John's cheekbones with his finger. "You're so good," and climax takes John by surprise, making him contract around Harold and spill untouched.

The ovipositor just keeps going deeper.

John's earlier moans have transformed into thin keening noises. He's been fucked before and he's been fisted, but it's never felt like this. It would be terrifying if he weren't looking up into Harold's sweaty, pleasure-stricken face, if he didn't have Harold's hands on him and Harold's voice in his ears, calling him _beautiful_ and _good_ and _so right for me, John, exactly what I need_.

As it is, John stays where he is and lets himself whimper when he feels Harold thickening further inside him. It starts at the base, then, bewilderingly, moves inside John, an irregular bump travelling.

Another swelling starts before John abruptly gets it, the latin he learned a million years ago making itself known. _Ova_ means eggs. Finch is laying eggs in him.

"What is it?" Harold looks concerned. "John, are you hurt?"

With effort, John shakes his head, wipes his eyes, and calms the hysterical giggles that emerge from his mouth. "Are you going to build a nest, next?" he says.

"Oh," Finch says. "No. They're, they're nonviable. I was trying to tell you." He's wiggling, and after a brief confused moment John realizes Finch is trying to move away, even as another egg makes its way down his ovipositor and into John. A tortured moan comes out of Finch's mouth.

John tightens his legs behind Harold's back. "Please," he says, letting all the raw vulnerability he's feeling into his voice. "Don't go. I can take it."

After an indecisive moment, Harold goes slack over him, Harold's ovipositor wriggling securely back into place. "You can take a great deal," Harold says unhappily. "That doesn't mean you should, or that I should make you."

"It does if you'd die otherwise." It's very strange to be arguing like this: normally it's Harold who'll ferociously make the case for life at any cost, no matter whose. 

"I'm past the greatest danger," Harold says. "It will be painful to withdraw from you now, but it wouldn't possess a health risk. And if one of us must suffer pain," his mouth crooks briefly, "or I should say, additional pain--"

"It should be me," John says, incapable of letting Harold take that sentence where it was going. "Always me. _Please._ I want it."

Harold strokes John's hair, his expression troubled. John closes his eyes.

It lets him feel more: Harold's weight on him and Harold's scent, and the progress of the eggs inside John. They don't hurt very much: hardly at all, and the pain John is feeling is the kind that's easily transmuted into pleasure if he lets himself do it. 

He shifts his legs, opening them wider, tilting his pelvis subtly to rock against Harold.

"Please be still," Harold says, gasping.

A contrarian streak John hasn't been able to suppress has him saying, "Or what?"

Instead of answering, Harold groans softly, and John feels a batch of eggs move into him in quick succession, one after the other, feels himself tightening after one comes in only to immediately be pried open by the next one.

Then there's something big at his entrance - bigger than Harold, bigger than the eggs, big enough that John thinks he can't possibly let it in, but he _does_ : Harold pushes and it's _in_ , huge and moving deeper, making John whimper and squirm futilely.

"Movement triggers egg release," Harold says, his voice cracking. He holds on tightly to John.

John keeps still, waiting. 

Eventually the flow of eggs halts. Harold draws a ragged breath. "I think that's the last of it." He pulls out: it seems to take forever, leaving John feeling empty, almost desolate.

When John opens his eyes, though, his stomach seems obscenely swollen. 

Thankfully, Harold spares him the inquiry by saying, "The swelling should go down soon. Sooner if I, ah, help the ova breakdown process... may I?" He presses on John's stomach gently.

John gasps, and nods, and keeps gasping as Harold pushes down on the eggs. John can't even put the way it feels in words, simultaneously too empty and too full, feeling pressures in ways and places he's never felt it. 

"Almost done," Harold tells him. John clings to his voice like a lifeline. "Almost there."

He knows it's true, can see his body's reaction to what Harold is doing to him. John is almost looking normal again when he starts feeling an odd, urgent tension. "Harold," he says, then loses the rest of the sentence to coming again. It lasts a long time, the last few spasms dry and almost painful.

"Yes," Harold says, low, calming. "That's perfectly all right. You're doing so well."

The words tip John over the limit into _too much_. "Stop," he says, hoarse, and Harold does. Harold comes close when John grabs at him, lets John cling, pets John's back and kisses his shoulders and his face.

John just about has himself at a semblance of normalcy when Harold freezes and says, "Oh dear." 

"Finch?" John says. "What is it?"

"I should have mentioned earlier," Harold says, sounding distinctly guilty, "I was trying to, in fact. And it bears reminding that the alternative was death."

John nips Harold's ear, making him jump. "Harold. Cut to the chase."

Harold grumbles, but says, "Having completed a highly successful estrus cycle with you, your continued proximity is likely to make the next one come up that much more quickly." He clears his throat. "I am, of course, extremely sorry for essentially emotionally blackmailing you into this situation."

"Are you?" John says, curiously. Harold doesn't sound very sorry.

Harold hesitates. "I realize I should be. I hope it counts for something." He pets John's back with restless little strokes. "Aren't you sorry you helped me?"

John hums. He considers feeling bad, but Harold's ears turned a very faint pink when he said _successful estrus cycle_. John would rather invest his remaining mental resources into reproducing that response. He turns around and licks Harold throat.

"John!" Harold sounds mortified, and his ovipositor twitches.

John pauses. "You getting ready to go again?" He's not sure he could take it... oh, hell, he probably can. For Harold, he can.

"No," Harold says resolutely, even as his ovipositor reacts to John's curious touch, gently winding itself around John's wrist.

"Hello," John tells it, charmed despite himself. 

"It doesn't have a mind of its own, you know," Harold grumbles, even as the tip of the ovipositor rubs at John's hand like an animal asking to be petted. "Despite appearances to the contrary."

John yields and runs a hand over the ovipositor, delighting when he realizes it is making Harold's toes curl. "I don't know," he says. "Seems like making nice with it is the best way to get in your bed."

Harold's hand lands on top of John's. When John looks up, Harold's eyes are wide, earnest and confused. "Did you not know I wanted you?" Harold sounds honestly shocked. 

There's a lot of ways to answer that. John goes with, "No." Like his suits, it's simple and elegant, a classic for a reason.

"You do now," Harold says with a finality that John finds thrilling. "And your further presence in my bed, I'll stress, doesn't depend on your willingness to, ah, let me have you."

The phrasing makes John shudder, and he tries to mask it with blitheness. "You need to stay alive for me to get in bed with you, Finch."

(John is admittedly terrible at being blithe.)

"Noted," Harold says dryly. He smooths his hands over John, and John melts into the touch, still idly playing with the tip of Harold's ovipositor.

"What are you?" Not the most tactful of John's interrogations, but being fucked senseless tends to mess with his abilities.

For a moment, Harold's silent, and John wonders if he overstepped his boundaries. Then Harold says, "I don't quite know. My father was like me; I've read similar accounts by others, but those were different enough that I can't say whether they were truth, fiction, or a mixture, and in any case..." Harold hesitates. "It's a private matter."

John snuggles closer. It shouldn't feel like a victory, being allowed so far inside Finch's walls. "Thanks for sharing, Harold."

Harold nips his shoulder, then kisses the sting away. "Are you even attracted to me?" he asks, vaguely despairing, "Or are you simply so entranced by getting in where you shouldn't that you'll stoop to using your body to get there?"

"It's working," John points out. He's not all that sure himself, and honestly doesn't care: sleeping with Harold has so far been a lot more satisfying than most sex he's ever had. Desire seems irrelevant when he can have Harold, facinating and complicated, and with a lot more mystery to him than John even knew.

There's a hell of a lot more questions to ask, from _Why now_ to _Could the eggs become viable_ , but John's going to bide his time. He has the feeling he's going to get a lot of opportunities to go digging.


End file.
